The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Grippen faced their formation. He scanned their faces one last time before barking his next command.

  “First rank, up the ramp!”

  Saredon stood in the second rank, so he had the advantage of watching the first wave of recruits tackle the course. None of them made the first boy’s mistake. They attacked the obstacles, moving fast and staying light on their feet. When they had all made it across the floor of spinning blades, Grippen shouted again.

  “Second rank, up the ramp!”

  Galvanized into motion by Grippen’s command, Saredon surged forward with the rest of the second rank. He was the first to the ramp, and he reached the top before any of the others. In front of him, the wooden pillars seemed to be spinning much faster than when he had been watching from the ground. He paused, trying to get the timing down.

  A black-armored body shot past Saredon, the second student up the ramp. The girl paid the price for her haste. A wooden arm cracked her in the jaw and sent her flying off the course. To Saredon, it seemed like she fell in slow motion, her ponytail trailing out behind her.

  He did not watch her hit the ground. Ready now, Saredon jumped forward. He ducked under the same arm that had felled the girl, dodged another, and hurled himself through to safety. On the other side, he hesitated for only an instant to look back and check on Thyria. She was close behind him and moving with confidence.

  The blades were next. Saredon saw blood spattered on the rough wooden floor. No one had fallen into them, but the students who crossed had not escaped unscathed. Saredon heard the twang of a bowstring, and somewhere up ahead, a student cried out in pain. This terrible reminder spurred him forward.

  Saredon stepped out onto the deadly floor. He hesitated. He had thought the timing impossible to judge, but now he saw that their motion had a pattern. There was one clear path, that if followed perfectly, would reach the other side free of the blades. Saredon risked Grippen’s attack to wait for the pattern to reset. When it did, he hurled himself forward, imagining a blunted arrow seeking his skull.

  No arrow came, and no saws cut into him. Saredon reached the next platform untouched. This platform was crowded. Five other students were working up their courage to face the next obstacle. Saredon pushed through them to see what had them so afraid.

  He looked down into a spike-filled pit. Saredon jerked his gaze away. One body was already down there. The distance across the gap was just beyond what he thought he could jump. Two knotted ropes dangled in front of a sheer wooden wall. To complete the obstacle, Saredon needed to jump the pit and grab hold of one of those ropes.

  Hesitation would not make the distance shorter. Saredon cleared a path through the other students as he walked to the rear of the platform. He turned to face the pit. He let his arms hang down in front of him, hands loose, fingers already anticipating the rope. Before fear could stop him, Saredon sprinted forward.

  Saredon’s boots bit hard against the rough grain of the wood. He knew right away that his speed was good. Now all that mattered was a good launch. Legs pumping, Saredon hurled himself at the edge of the pit. With his last step, he pushed hard against the side of the ledge. He sailed into the air.

  The far wall rushed up to meet him. Saredon hit hard and bounced. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he scrabbled to catch the dangling rope. His hands found a knot and held on tight. Saredon hung a foot above the spikes, trying to catch his breath. Inspired by his courage, another student attempted the jump. They crashed into the wall next to Saredon and managed to hold on.

  When Saredon could move again, he hoisted himself up the rope and onto the platform above. Once on his feet, Saredon paused to rest. He placed his hands on his knees and tried to slow his pounding heart. Behind him, another student thumped into the wall.

  Saredon turned his attention to the next obstacle. Before he could fully comprehend the challenge in front of him, a desperate voice cried out from the pit at his back.

  “Saredon!” the voice said.

  It was Thyria.

  Saredon whirled towards her. She was clinging to the edge of the pit, holding herself up with only her forearms. Her strength was gone.

  “I can’t get up,” Thyria said.

  Grippen had spotted Thryia’s struggles.

  “Leave her!” Grippen bellowed.

  Saredon glanced at the instructor. Grippen’s fully drawn bow was aimed right at him. Leaving Thryia to fall into the spikes was never an option in Saredon’s mind. Grippen must have known this, for at the first hint of movement from Saredon, he let fly. The blunt arrow struck Saredon high in the right arm. It glanced off his armor but still knocked him off balance. He spun as he fell to the floor of the platform. His arm had gone numb.

  Now below Grippen’s sightline, Saredon crawled on his belly towards Thyria. Just as he reached her, another arrow slammed into her back. It clattered against her armor and fell into the spikes below her. She grunted and almost let go. Saredon grabbed her arms and pulled. Thyria helped as best she could, and together, they got her out of the pit.

  Grippen was furious. Saredon listened to the man screaming at the other students. At the moment, he was too shaken to care. Thyria lay next to him, her face pressed against the wood. Her eyes were closed.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I should have quit a long time ago.”

  “It’s okay,” Saredon said. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be a reaver.”

  They lay there together and waited for Grippen to appear. When he did, his face was set in a mask of rigid fury.

  “Up, both of you,” he snarled.

  Saredon and Thyria obeyed. The rest of the students watched as Grippen marched the two of them down from the scaffolding and out of the courtyard. He took them straight to his personal office. Outside the door, he finally addressed them.

  “Thyria is weak and destined to fail,” Grippen said. “But you, boy, I expected better of you. What sort of fool throws away everything to save someone not worth saving?”

  “You’re dismissed,” Grippen said, speaking to Thyria. “Return to the barracks and wait on your bunk until you’re called for. I’ll decide your fate after I’ve dealt with this… disappointment.”

  Mortified, Thyria hurried away. She did not even glance at Saredon. For some silly reason, he was hurt by this.

  “Inside,” Grippen said. He slapped the door open with the flat of his hand.

  Saredon stepped into Grippen’s office.

  “You will face the wall and stand at attention while I fetch your mother,” Grippen said. “She’ll want to know what you’ve done.”

  The door swung shut, and Saredon assumed the position. He rested his forehead against the wall of cold stone. It felt wonderful against his hot skin. His heart hurt. Saving Thyria had been the right thing to do. Why was everyone angry with him for wanting to help her? Surely, his mother would understand.

  Saredon worried about what would happen to Thryia until footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. He jerked his hands back up behind his back and straightened his posture. The door swung open, and Grippen entered first, followed by Saredon’s mother.

  They did not speak to Saredon right away. Grippen moved around his desk and sat down. Mariel took a seat in one of the chairs facing Grippen. When they were both comfortable, Grippen finally addressed Saredon.

  “You may face us,” Grippen said.

  Saredon turned on his heel. His hopes that his mother would have sympathy on him vanished when he saw her face. Mariel was not happy.

  “Instructor Grippen told me everything,” Mariel said.

  “Mother, I only did what I thought—,” Saredon said, trying to explain himself.

  Mariel jerked her hand up. “Silence. I can see now that I’ve been too lenient. I thought special treatment might help you, but I can see that it has had the opposite effect. You think yourself above the rules that govern the other students.”

  Saredon clamped his mouth shut. His mother’s voice was hard, almos
t cruel.

  “That’s a mistake I can rectify,” Mariel said. “Any special treatment as the tenth reaver’s son ends today. From this point on, you’ll be treated no better than that brat you risked your future to save. That is, if I can convince Instructor Grippen to keep you in the class. You did not finish the obstacle course, but technically, you did not fail it either.”

  Unshed tears filled Saredon’s eyes. He forced himself not to cry. At that moment, he knew with absolute surety that he wanted nothing to do with being a reaver. This training had been a mistake.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” Saredon said. “I don’t want to be a reaver.”

  “Don’t you dare force me to tell your father that his son quit,” Mariel said. “He’ll be here soon. He’s coming to witness your final trial. If he arrives only to discover that you gave up, his displeasure will be immense.”

  Saredon hung his head.

  “You will stand at attention!” Grippen said.

  Saredon snapped his head back up. He could not bear the thought of Kaiser being disappointed in him. Was this what his father had to endure when he was a child? The idea filled Saredon with sadness.

  “Return to your room while we discuss your future,” Mariel said. “And enjoy your last night in a private bed, because tomorrow, you will join the rest of your classmates in the barracks.”

  At this dismissal, Saredon fled into the blessed solitude of the hallway. Now, he let the tears fall. His mother’s harsh scrutiny hurt worse than any pain he had ever endured. Somehow, Saredon felt more alone now than ever before. He had never thought he would remember being a gutter rat with fondness, but he did.

  Despite the tears and the pain, Saredon could not dismiss the image of Kaiser from his mind. If Saredon’s father wanted him to be a reaver, a reaver he would become.

  Chapter 34

  SORRELL SAT ON THE stairs outside the apartment that was her prison for hours. She could not leave, and she dreaded going back inside. To climb back up the steps was an admission of defeat, an acceptance of her captivity. Frustrated, and fighting to hold back a rising terror, Sorrell tried to think of a way out. But all she had at her disposal was the tiny spike that had been pulled from her neck. There was no way she would make it past the two tomb keepers watching the street outside.

  If only Sorrell still possessed the full extent of her powers, she might have a chance. She turned her focus inward. For the better part of an hour, Sorrell struggled to summon her powers to her aid. The others claimed that these mystical abilities were bestowed by a guiding will, a conscious force that they even gave a name. Sorrell remembered being touched by this will, remembered how it had filled her with terrible strength. She had surrendered to it, and with that surrender had come the power to destroy Mazareem’s undead army.

  But she had experienced nothing close to that since entering Vaul. Her powers had gone dormant, and the presence that filled her with such conviction had receded. Sorrell’s frustration gave way to anger. She clenched her fists, closed her eyes, and called upon the icy heart that beat inside her.

  Sorrell reached deep down into the core of her being and demanded that the power answer her. She trembled as the blood in her veins turned to ice. Around her fists, the air itself froze solid. Sorrell sensed a barrier between her and the power surging to answer her call. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not break through it. She held herself there for as long as possible, determined to drain every last vestige of her power before giving up.

  Finally, shaking from the strain, Sorrell had to stop. The ice around her hands turned to water and splashed to the floor. She would find no deliverance from within. Her shoulders slumped. Exhaustion pressed down on her, a suffocating weight that she could not resist. The wound on her neck throbbed. Sorrell had not thought she lost much blood, but maybe she was wrong.

  Suddenly weak, Sorrell realized she had not eaten anything in almost a day. Her thoughts went immediately to the baby in her belly. She needed food, if only for the child’s sake. Sorrell used the stairs’ handrail to haul herself to her feet. She cursed her unsteady legs as she climbed the steps. They wobbled like a landlubber trying to find his sea legs.

  Back inside the suite, Sorrell made her way to the small kitchen in the servants’ section. The other two women noted her return, but they did not try to communicate with her. This suited Sorrell fine. She did not have the energy to pantomime her needs to them right now.

  The kitchen contained a cast iron stove, pots and pans, and a fully stocked cupboard. Thankfully, the stove was always burning, so all Sorrell needed to do was find something she knew how to cook. She rummaged around in the cupboard, opening sacks to peer inside at the contents. Her strength was fading fast.

  Sorrell found a bag of what looked like crushed oats. With water, she might be able to prepare a pitiful porridge. She lifted the lid on a barrel next to the cupboard. It was filled with water. Confident she could produce at least a crude meal, Sorrell dipped a pot into the barrel. The pot was surprisingly heavy. Sorrell grasped the handle with two hands as she carried it over to the stove.

  Before she could place the pot on the stovetop, her strength gave out. Her arms collapsed under the strain. The pot fell to the floor with a clatter, water hissing where it splashed against the hot stove. Sorrell stared at the puddle in a daze. She was weaker than she thought.

  At the sound of the accident, the other two women came to investigate. Sorrell did not have to explain herself for them to understand what she was trying to do. The older woman clucked her tongue and said something to her younger companion. She moved to the cupboard while the younger woman drew near and placed a hand on Sorrell’s arm.

  Sorrell allowed herself to be guided to the small table that sat in the kitchen. The older woman busied herself at the stove. She soon had the pot boiling, and the smell of porridge filled the tiny room. While they waited, the younger woman cleaned and dressed the wound on Sorrell’s neck a second time.

  This gentle attention lulled Sorrell into an exhausted state of peace. It had been so long since someone worried over her. She had no memories of her mother ever showing her a scrap of compassion, but there had been maids and nannies during her childhood who had shown Sorrell the love she so desperately craved.

  The women talked while they worked, and although Sorrell did not understand their words, the quiet conversation made her smile. She felt like a little girl again. Her tired mind sank into this feeling, shutting out every other worry and concern. For a brief, blessed moment, this cozy kitchen was all that existed.

  When the porridge was done, the older woman ladled it into a bowl, sprinkled some spices on the top, and sat it in front of Sorrell. Sorrell smiled and nodded her thanks. She leaned forward to savor the delicious smells wafting up from the bowl. It was a good thing she had dropped the pot. This woman was a better cook than Sorrell would ever be.

  Sorrell grabbed a spoon and dug in. The first mouthful hit her tongue in an explosion of flavor. She had never tasted anything more heavenly. The other two women sat and watched Sorrell devour the first helping. When she finished, they refilled the bowl, and Sorrell licked that one clean too. Sorrell held up a hand and shook her head to indicate that she did not need a third portion. Her belly was full, and the warmth of the porridge had chased the last traces of cold from her body.

  The older woman collected the empty bowl, and Sorrell leaned back in her chair to consider the curative characteristics of cooked oats. She hoped her unborn child was enjoying the meal as much as she had. Now that she had her wits about her again, Sorrell’s thoughts turned inevitably back to the problem of being a prisoner. She hated to leave the cozy bubble of her isolated kitchen realm, but she had to find a way out of here.

  Tomb keepers watched the street out front, but what about the back? Sorrell pushed herself away from the table and got to her feet. While the other two women cleaned up, Sorrell went to explore their sleeping quarters behind the kitchen. On the rear wall, woode
n shutters were closed to cover a window to the outside.

  Excited by the prospect of an avenue of escape, Sorrell hurried over to the window. She unlatched the shutters, eased them open, and leaned out. It took a moment for her to understand what she found on the other side. She was staring down into a fathomless pit. The building she was in was built right up to the edge of this abyss. On the far side, about the length of a warship in distance, were the sheer walls of the black castle that stood in the heart of Orcassus.

  Sorrell staggered back from the window. The dark citadel loomed over her. Unless she wanted to throw herself into that heart of darkness, she would find no escape here. Defeated, Sorrell sat down hard on one of the beds. She wanted to cry, but she was too tired, and draining the reserves of her power seemed to have robbed her body of excess moisture.

  The older woman entered the room to check on her, and again, the open window and Sorrell’s dejected posture told the story that words could not. The woman shook her head in sympathy. She closed and secured the shutters before tending to Sorrell. At the woman’s insistence, Sorrell allowed herself to be tucked beneath the sheets of the bed.

  Once she was snug beneath the covers, Sorrell struggled to keep her eyes open. The woman patted Sorrell’s shoulder and quietly left the room. She closed the door behind her, blocking most of the light. Another memory from Sorrell’s childhood bubbled up from the hidden places of her mind. A memory of safety and happiness. She used to love falling asleep to the muted sounds of the adults outside her room, the sliver of light shining through the crack in her door carrying with it the promise that they were out there, watching over her.

  Sorrell fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  ——

  Sorrell awoke with a jerk. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. Something had startled her awake. She lay in bed, straining her senses. Somewhere in the suite, a door slammed. Moments later, Sorrell heard rapid footsteps in the kitchen outside her room. The door swung open and the older servant woman appeared, silhouetted by the light of the kitchen.